


To Think of Cinnamon

by Indybaggins



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Caring Douglas, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Romance, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five moments of food, friendship, and quietly falling in love - four times that Douglas offered Martin something sweet, and one time that it was Martin who offered it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charleroi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pickles7437](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickles7437/gifts).



> For Pickles7437, who has betaed hundreds of thousands of words(!) for me by now, and absolutely deserves something in return. Here’s a small taste of five countries, five desserts, and Martin and Douglas being adorable. Merry (early) Christmas! 
> 
> Beta and Brit-picking was by the lovely Gutterflower.

 

 

Martin is at Charleroi airport, taxiing GERTI over the runway at a snail’s pace. 

They’re fourteenth in line to depart and air control keeps on adding in Ryanair flights, so they’re not leaving any time soon. There are uninspiring grey clouds overhead - Belgium is nothing pleasant in winter.

It’s only Martin’s second week as a captain at MJN Air. 

“Here, you want one?” Douglas turns to him, holding out a small gold tinted box. The type that holds fancy sweets or chocolates, and Martin only has to see it from the corner of his eye to know that he can never afford something like that. 

“No, thank you. Um. Douglas.” It comes out too formal and Martin knows it, but he can’t let Douglas (not first officer Richardson, as Martin had assumed they would address one another, no, not here, too small a company) _Douglas_ , give him something like this. He would hold it over him, Martin is certain of it. Douglas seems like the type to smarm, and then want something from him in return. But still, etiquette is important, MJN is a tiny company - what if they don’t like him? What if it turns out that they’d rather have someone else be the captain? Because of course they would, of course everyone would rather have someone else than Martin fly their planes, it’s a miracle that he’s being allowed to at all.

Douglas takes the box away, and pops a chocolate into his mouth. 

A 737 leaves the runway, and they move forward. It’s going to be another half an hour at least at this pace. 

Martin can hear the faint sound of Douglas chewing. 

Maybe he even stole them. 

Douglas has been fired from his job as an Air England captain for stealing, he said so himself. Douglas just came out and admitted it right when they met, and Martin feels both slightly impressed by that because _a true professional does not keep important information from his captain_ , and appalled that Douglas would jeopardise such a job, at Air England. Something others... well, some others, can only dream of. 

Being around Douglas is reminding Martin of being in school, a little. Or of his brother, too. Douglas seems like someone who’d take his jacket, and his keys, and make him reach for them above his head and then use the movement to punch him in the stomach. 

He seems like he is someone like that. 

Douglas keeps on talking in a way that Martin isn’t sure whether he’s making fun of him, and it makes him feel nervous. As if he wants to check whether he has his clothes on right, and his hat isn’t on backwards. 

Only now he is flying, Martin is _in command_ and there are so many little details that need to be perfect. He is good at this, he is detail-oriented, but there are so many checklists, and procedures, and rules. Martin knows them all by heart, of course - he studies for at least an hour every night before going to sleep no matter how tired he is because constant repetition is the only way that he can make himself remember. But sometimes he panics when he’s doing something that suddenly he’s not sure about. Or if there’s something that doesn’t seem as if he’s checked it even though he has, so he checks it again, and then again to be sure, and that’s, that’s the feeling that Douglas is making worse. 

Sitting next to him all stretched out and languid, leaning on his co-pilot seat, doing things like eating chocolates. 

Douglas has left the package open, and Martin can smell just a hint of them, something sweet and mild. 

There’s a name on the box, ‘Leonidas’. Martin stares at it. Wasn’t that some Greek warrior? Martin thinks that he could say to Douglas, casually, ‘That was a Greek warrior, wasn’t it?’ But then he would probably be wrong because yes, that’s just what he would do, he would say it, and then Douglas would tell him all the ways in which he is wrong - Martin can feel his throat close up at the thought. 

He’s been vaguely nauseous every day he has been flying so far. 

Nerves, but it’s more than that, too. Martin’s had nerves, horrible, grinding things that chill over his spine and make every moment feel as if he is about to fall over a cliff and make his breath hurt and his hands shake, he’s had that for years, that’s normal. But here, at MJN, he hasn’t... they haven’t gotten to the bad part yet. Martin hasn’t made any horrible mistakes, or embarrassed himself, and Douglas, even though he has been sort of annoying to work with, hasn’t really laughed at him yet. 

None of them have. 

Arthur, the steward, seems really enthusiastic about everything. He is well, not that smart, apparently (he also said that himself when introducing himself, Arthur said, ‘I was never smart enough to be a pilot and I’m still learning how to be a steward even though it’s been years and Mum says that I’ll never learn but I have brilliant social skills, so hello, I’m Arthur, hi!’) 

But Arthur seems to get along with Douglas, at least. Which made Martin feel a little better the first time he heard them talk, but then he remembered that Arthur is the boss’ son, and of course Douglas would try to be nice to him.

Another plane leaves. The standard Ryanair Boeing 737 - they buy up old planes and assimilate them into their arsenal - and Martin steers them further ahead over the grey runway. 

Martin did try talking to Douglas. Right after their first flight, Martin gathered his courage and asked Douglas whether there was anything he wanted to debrief on, and whether he wanted to go over procedures of the flight. And Douglas laughed and said “Oh, _most definitely_ not, see you Friday.” 

Martin tried to talk to Carolyn, then, a bit intimidated because she _is_ the boss of the airline, but she had brushed him off and said, “Just file it along with the other flight plans in the office, we all know where we went, don’t we?”

And Arthur had shrugged and said, “I don’t really know anything about flight procedures, skip.”

Which was probably true, but Arthur called him skip. Which is, well, proper. Martin is supposed to be addressed at such, now, so he smiled at Arthur. 

The scent of chocolate keeps on drifting past, and Martin can feel his stomach constrict painfully. 

It’s not just because he’s afraid of throwing up all over the console that he hasn’t eaten today - that happened only once. With a simulator. Over a year ago. It’s also that food costs money, and Carolyn isn’t paying him. 

The job Martin had before this was... not the best. They called him Criefie, and liked to make him stammer, and Martin knew that he wasn’t that bad and actually one of the more efficient pilots there, but they gave him the ‘This is your trial period and we don’t think that you should complete it here with us, you still lack flight experience’ speech. But as long as it lasted, it did pay. 

Martin had been looking for a job that paid. 

And now he’s not sure how he is going to make the rent this month. He has no food at home other than two tins of beans. He will have one tonight, tonight, Martin reminds himself, when he gets back, he is allowed a tin. And then there is still the other, and he has two pounds and twenty-eight pence, he counted them after buying a loaf of bread four days ago. 

His stomach cramps at night enough to keep him from sleeping, so Martin looks at the flight manuals, and procedures lists, and memorises them until his head is blurry enough that he can just lie down and fall asleep. 

Douglas, next to him, suddenly says, “Have you ever had real, freshly made Belgian chocolates?” He sounds as if he is saying it to listen to the sound of his own voice more than anything else. “I mean, there are the store brands, I believe Cote d’Or is my favourite, but the fresh ones? Godiva, Belvas, Neuhaus?” 

Martin can’t lie about that, because he’ll know. “...No.”

“Then you really have to try one of these, it’s a Manon Café, white chocolate, coffee flavoured butter cream, topped off with a hazelnut, I got them from Anne, lovely woman, she works at the airport shop.” 

So he didn’t steal them, at least. 

Martin still doesn’t want to accept one; it’s not worth it, just for one, to be in Douglas’ debt. Even though his mouth waters at the thought. 

But Douglas is trying to chat, so Martin says, carefully, “She’s um, your friend? Anne?” 

“Oh...” Doulas’ tone goes amused, “I wouldn’t say _friend_ so much as one romantic evening in Brussels in ’88. She’s happily married now, of course, four children, I believe the oldest is a violinist at the Paris Opera, but whenever we’re in Charleroi, she always gives me a box.”

Martin’s saved from trying to figure out how to reply to that, because Arthur walks in and says, “Mum wants to know how much longer we’re going to be here and she says to step on it.”

“Ah, yes, naturally, if only we could _step on it_.” Douglas sighs. 

Martin turns to Arthur, and tries for a commanding sort of smile, “We are in line, you can tell her that we are thirteenth.” 

“Twelfth,” Douglas says, proving that he had been paying attention after all, “Flight to Marrakesh just left.”

“Yes,” Martin gulps, _he knew that, he saw that, he should have counted, why didn’t he see that,_ “so you can say that we are twelfth in line, and that it will be approximately another twenty minutes before we depart.” 

“Righty’o!’

Arthur leaves, as cheery as if he would have said that they were leaving right now. 

“She’s not going to like that.” 

What, Carolyn? Why? Why wouldn’t she? Martin glances at Douglas. He didn’t do anything wrong, there is nothing at all strange about waiting their turn, that is how it is done. 

The runway is getting an air of un-reality to it now, waving back and forth somewhat. Martin’s not certain whether it’s the wait - it feels as if they have been here forever, or the fact that Carolyn is not going to like this. 

The whole cabin smells like chocolate. 

Douglas reaches for another one, his hand digging in the box, and Martin has to press his lips together not to say anything. It’s not professional, it’s just _not_. 

Douglas moves his arm towards him, and Martin flinches, but Douglas is holding a chocolate between his fingers. “Here, have one, before she comes in and ruins it.” 

“Um,” Martin looks ahead, there’s a space in front of them, so he steers GERTI ahead, first, and then looks back. 

Douglas is waiting for him to take the chocolate, holding it out patiently. 

And Martin can’t think of what else to do now, so he takes it. “I, ah. Thank you.” He suppresses the urge to add ‘Sir’ to that. 

It’s a small praline, white chocolate, with a bump on top. It feels as if it used to be in the fridge but now the chocolate’s sweating slightly against Martin’s fingertips. Maybe because he made Douglas hold onto it. 

Martin glances at him, is he laughing? Is this a trick of some sort? But Douglas is taking a chocolate for himself, still seeming so utterly at ease. 

So Martin awkwardly brings the praline to his lips, and bites a small corner off of it. The white chocolate is only a small layer, crackling beneath his teeth, and it reveals something softer in the middle. It’s a bright burst of flavour, and his mouth waters even more. Martin can taste the creamy, cool texture. There is an edge of dark cacao as well, a little sharp and bitter. 

Douglas is looking at him. Probably wondering why he is taking so long eating something so simple and normal, so Martin opens his mouth and pushes the rest of the praline in it, and chews fast. It feels larger than it is, all smooth sweetness, and Martin hasn’t had chocolate in a while but he can tell that it’s the good kind, buttery and sweet. At the end there is a round hazelnut, slightly dry as he crunches it between his teeth, and the ragged little bits chase the sweetness away. He swallows. 

Douglas is still looking at him, waiting for him, Martin realises - Douglas gave this to him as a gift, so he needs to thank him, “It’s good, really good. Thank you. Um. Douglas.” 

Douglas’ face evens out. “Ah yes, the Belgians are famous for their chocolate. Also beer, I’m partial to a Rochefort myself, although I wouldn’t say no to a good Chimay either.”

There’s the sound of the cabin door opening, and Carolyn’s voice, “What is this about being twelfth in line? _Twelfth?!_ We need to be in Dublin by four! Douglas, surely there is something you can do?” 

“To relieve your tenuous relationship with the word ‘twelfth’? I am not entirely certain, Carolyn.”

“No, you idiot, to get us out of here faster!” she pauses, and says consideringly. “Let’s say that there might be a mini-bottle of Green Label Jack Daniels in it for you.”

Douglas shifts, as if he is secretly pleased. “Hmm... Just one?”

Martin looks at him in shock. 

“Fine, two, but that’s all I have.” 

Really, they are bargaining? That’s just incredibly unprofessional! And about what? There’s nothing to do about where they are in line, it can’t be changed! 

Douglas is still projecting complete calm even though he is plainly asking to be _bribed by his boss_. “Is that why I saw you leaving your hotel room this morning with three bottles stuffed into your purse?”

“Fine, _three_ , fix it!”

Carolyn leaves, and instead of being annoyed at her request, or even daunted at all, Douglas radios, “Tower, this is GERTI, first officer Douglas Richardson speaking, requesting to speak to Michélle?” 

Douglas does get them out of there. And it is only later, when he’s back home and opening his tin of beans, that Martin realises that Douglas never offered any chocolates to Arthur or Carolyn. 

Just him.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Bangkok

 

 

Douglas has always enjoyed the flights to Asia. 

Granted, for somewhat different reasons now than he used to - he’s really far past the era of seducing a different stewardess every night. But it’s not just the memories of mild debauchery that make it pleasant to be back, he’s always enjoyed the culture as well. The food, especially. 

It’s usually the big airlines with larger planes that tend to do the long-haul flights, MJN only rarely gets to. But they go anywhere that the client pays them to go, and now they’re here, in Bangkok. 

Making their way towards an evening market. 

Because of course their hotel is not in the centre of Bangkok at all but hidden away in a suburb near the airport. It’s not even a hotel but a guesthouse, a small ten-pounds-a-night affair with an unpronounceable name where they had to drag their overnight bags to the fourth floor themselves, and hardly anyone speaks English. 

Dinner wasn’t even an option, so they’ve ventured out in search of something edible, which meant following the stream of people on the road to a large square. It’s extremely busy, whole masses of women, children and men all doing their evening shopping. 

Music, something poppy, blearing through old speakers. 

Small stalls with smoke rushing out, colourful arrays of meats, fish, fruits, clothing, pirated DVD’s, everything under the sun and then some. 

They stand out in the crowd. They wouldn’t so much in central Bangkok, but here they would have even without the uniforms, Douglas is tall enough to tower over nearly everyone else, and even Arthur is notably taller than most. But all they’re getting is friendly, curious stares. An occasional smile. The calls to buy something. Thailand is well used to tourism. 

Even though it’s dark and after nine in the evening, the heat and humidity is still pressing, even more so when manoeuvring in between the dizzying rush of people. Arthur’s shouts and exclamations are mostly lost to the noise of the crowd, but not to the point where Douglas can’t follow his excitement at being here, apparently night markets are _brilliant_. Also fruit stands (brilliant), and tuk-tuks ( _super_ brilliant).

Douglas pick up Carolyn’s shorter replies to what he’s saying, and also, “No, you cannot sell your car and get a tuk-tuk, what would you even do with it?” 

“I’m not sure they’re legal in Britain,” Douglas muses. “Although I saw a rickshaw in London not too long ago. What do you reckon, Martin, could these go to sixty?” 

Martin, although he is hiding it well, seems quite overwhelmed, “Oh, I, um, I don’t know.” He considers them. “Maybe?” 

Douglas buys a portion of _Pad See Ew_ at the first half-decent looking stall, and Carolyn orders fried fish. In Thai, betraying that she, too, has been to Asia often. Back when she was a stewardess, most likely. Douglas, not for the first time, is glad that she has a couple of years on him; otherwise comparing their pasts might have been a tad awkward. 

He starts dragging the noodles into his mouth as they wander. It’s greasy, salty, and filling, the vegetables fresh and crunchy under his teeth.

Martin decides on a basic Pad Thai, the cheapest thing that’s around, and looks at it and the seller nervously before tasting it. 

Arthur, after some painful deliberation, gets a cone-shaped type of buttery bread on a stick. Then yells something about small… _bits_ of something roasting over a fire, and briefly disappears in the masses, his hat bopping in between a sea of dark-haired heads like a beacon.

Martin’s eyes are wide on the stalls, and he is trying hard not to bump into anyone while eating, but not quite succeeding. Douglas waits for him. 

Carolyn stops to eye a silk scarf, glances at the sales woman, and runs her fingers over the fabric speculatively.

It’s been a year now since Martin started at MJN. 

It’s been good, really. Douglas wasn’t all too pleased about having to be a first officer to someone that young, as if flying for MJN wasn’t humiliating enough. But with Martin it’s pathetically easy. Douglas gets to do all the fun bits of being a captain, and leave all the rest, paper work and flight plans, to Martin. And really it’s still Douglas calling the shots, and they all know it. 

When Martin’s caught up, Douglas turns towards a boy selling small, speckled quail eggs. He asks for extra salt in English, but thanks him in Thai, now that he’s here it’s coming back to him, too. 

Martin is standing to the side, and Douglas joins him. Carolyn is deep in conversation with the woman selling scarves, her body language seemingly disappointed, but her eyes glittering with the challenge of bargaining. 

They keep an eye on Arthur in the distance. “He’s buying something else?” 

“I think so.” Martin’s face is looking pale under the heavy lights. 

The eggs are just on the side of too salty, but they’re still warm and runny. There’s conversations and hurrying happening all around them. The smell of fish frying, smoky and harsh in his nose. It’s so warm that it might as well be midday; Douglas doesn’t want to guess how hot it was at noon. 

Not that they’ll be here long enough to find out. 

Still, it’s nice enough, standing here. Douglas is willing to secede that it might have to do with getting older, but he’s getting fonder of these moments. Watching the world go by. 

They don’t get approached and asked to buy anything more, perhaps simply because they are already eating. It’s a small bubble of peace under the artificial lights, in a loud crowd of bodies, surrounded by smells and sounds. 

Carolyn finishes her bargaining session with a whole of five silk scarves and a shark-like grin, and then goes in search of Arthur. 

Martin remarks, “You think she talked that woman into selling her five for the price of one?” He sounds somewhat disheartened about it. 

Douglas says, darkly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she got her first born as well.” 

Martin smiles. 

They’re not quite standing side to side, but it’s close enough that Douglas is aware of the outline of Martin next to him. His polyester uniform is sticking to his skin, damp with sweat. So maybe that’s why, it feels somewhat… heated, having Martin that close. Douglas ignores it. “You hadn’t been to Thailand, then?”

“No, no, I haven’t, but it’s…” Martin looks around. “Nice.” 

“Hmm, I prefer the markets up north, really. Chiang Mai, Chiang Rai. Lovely temples, there, too, if you’re ever close by you should go.” 

Martin doesn’t reply. He scrapes his plate before disposing of it. 

He quite obviously would like something more, but Douglas can already predict that he won’t get it. Martin’s like that. He always, always eats whatever is put in front of him to the last morsel, but he will never ask for more. Nor buy anything. 

Carolyn comes back after a few minutes, weaving her way through the crowds. Arthur is trailing behind her, munching on his fourth thing of the evening, and when Carolyn reaches them, she mumbles, “Don’t tell him that he’s eating canaries, trust me, I tried to stop him.” 

“What? _Canaries?_ Really?!” Martin sounds scandalised. 

“Oh, that’s hardly the worst you can find at a market like this.” Douglas remembers the snake blood at a similar market, thirty-odd years ago. Guaranteed to strengthen male potency. It put him in the hospital for three days.

Arthur walks up, holding a stick with three fried, very small birds. “Hi, chaps.” He frowns, “I don’t know what this is, it’s kind of... bony?” 

Douglas feigns interest. “Ah, really? One wonders why that would be.” 

But Arthur’s not paying attention, he turns his head, “Oh, _squid_ , wow!” and runs towards it, his canaries already forgotten. 

Carolyn shouts, “Arthur, do remember to come back, I’m not coming to get you again!”

“Yes, Mum!”

Carolyn sighs. And then moves on to a fruit stand, “Well, that saves me from doing the shopping tomorrow.” She starts inspecting guavas with a severely disappointed look, as if she cannot possibly believe that the seller (poor, poor man) would even try to get rid of such subpar produce.

Douglas is more interested in dessert. If they’re only here for one meal, he plans to make the most of it. 

Martin, as predicted, is hanging back and not getting anything else. 

He’s skinny, as well. Too much so. Douglas’ eyes sometimes linger on Martin’s wrists when his hands are on GERTI’s controls - they’re almost fragile. Martin’s face is more angular now than it was when he just started out, as well. Martin’s shirt, although always primly tucked in, is too large for him. 

Douglas remarked on it once. They did a thirty-hour back and forth to Russia where Arthur microwaved their meals with the plastic still over it and set the galley on fire, and Martin didn’t eat on the plane, or in the airport, or in the room. Douglas said, “Trying to keep that willowy figure, are you?” and then, when he didn’t reply, “Don’t tell me _sir_ has an eating disorder?” 

Martin spent the next ten minutes babbling and flushing and being overall nonsensical, so Douglas is aware that it is somewhat of a touchy subject, although he has no idea why. 

Buying Martin dessert would be odd though, Douglas thinks, he’s never done that. 

But well, they might not be back here for years. If at all. 

Douglas walks to a stall that’s nothing more than a school-aged child with a pot of rice and a heap of mangoes, and orders two. 

By the time he gets back, Carolyn is getting Martin to help her bag a collection of guavas, papayas, and a huge pineapple, and Arthur is chatting eagerly with three Thai teenagers. Presumably about squid, although one of them is showing Arthur his iPhone and Douglas can hear him say, “Oh _yes_ , I will be your Facebook friend! It’s Arthur Shappey, that’s with a... yes, that.” 

Douglas holds the white foam plate in front of Martin, and says, “Mango and sticky rice.” 

Douglas has a one for himself, too, and Martin’s eyes skip towards that, as opposed to looking him in the face. After a moment he does accept it, awkwardly. “Um, how much… was it?” 

Then he looks guilty, for no reason that Douglas can discern.

“Oh, nothing.” Douglas waves it away, feeling faintly annoyed that he’d even ask. Martin still acts as if it is utterly unbelievable whenever he does something at all friendly. While, what, it cost 20 Baht? Douglas would almost be insulted, if he didn’t know that to be the Crieff way. 

Martin, with something complicated on his face, takes a forkful of the rice. 

Douglas tries it himself, the mango is already sliced into easy cubes, and yes, it’s ripe. Fruit tastes differently in this part of the world, when it’s ripened on the tree. Who was it, his second wife? Ah yes, honeymoon in Costa Rica, she used to say you could taste the sunshine. Ridiculous concept, sure, but Douglas has to admit that there is something to it. 

The rice is mild, and sweet. 

They wander around the market for a while more, Arthur zigzagging from stall to stall, on a sugar high now as well. Carolyn is carrying her bags of shopping, and in a reasonably good mood. “We’ll all get eight hours of sleep, or six now, I suppose, and then get Mr. Milo back home in the morning, first flight out.” 

Martin is eating his dessert very slowly, as if he wants to taste every bite. 

On the way back to the hotel they walk past a Seven Eleven, where Arthur buys a whole selection of eccentric pre-wrapped pastries for their breakfast tomorrow on GERTI. Among which are croissants ‘with butter’ and ‘with extra butter’ so Douglas proposes a taste test to _settle it once and for all_ in the morning. 

Carolyn jumps on that, and agrees to make it a little more interesting: loser pays the hotel bill. 

Douglas is already sure that he’s going to win, naturally. Of Martin - most likely, he’s almost too easy to take advantage of. Almost. 

Then Arthur finds bean paste ice cream, and sugary garlic toast, and seaweed-flavoured crisps, and ‘something purple’! And Douglas can already tell that the way back is going to be a bonanza of tastes and bets and laughs. 

Bizarrely, though… 

He’s looking forward to it.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Venice

 

 

It’s been a long day, and it’s not even near being done yet. 

Martin’s been up since five. 

The clients on the way out of Fitton were a group of middle-aged women from the British Housewives’ League on a weekend out to Rome, and they were loud and demanding, enough so to even rattle Arthur’s cheeriness. And of course, Carolyn wasn’t happy with them just flying the women out, so after that they had to stop in Venice, drive to pick up a cooler at the _Ospedale Dell’ Angerlo_ , and they’ll need to deliver that to Prague this afternoon along with a businessman vacationing in Venice. 

And then, since the client isn’t going to show up for two more hours, Douglas talked them into a ‘small detour’. 

Which has so far consisted of them first driving, then taking a ferry ride, then walking at high speed through tourist-crowded tiny streets, in-between buildings, and over grand squares, while Martin carries the cooler, since Arthur offered to be helpful and nearly fell into a canal. 

So Martin’s hot, and he doesn’t know how this happened again, they could be sitting inside somewhere reviewing the flight plan, or maybe even, oh, _let’s go crazy_ , read a book! But of course they’re not, because in his two years at MJN Air Martin has learned that there’s rarely any time for that. Even when they’re stuck in an airport or on GERTI, it’s one game after the other, or trying to fix something, or scheming, or, like today, assisting Douglas in whatever he’s going to smuggle next.

It’s not that he hates it. It’s just, well, exhausting. Sometimes. And right now they have to be back at the airport in under an hour, there’s sweat beading on Martin’s forehead, and they’ve stopped in front of an ice cream shop, because _of course they have_. 

Martin can hear the disapproval in his own voice when he says, “Douglas, please tell me that we did not come all this way for ice cream?” 

Arthur makes a small, hopeful sound. “DID we Douglas?!” 

“Ice cream? No.” 

“Oh...” Arthur says, “Because they do have ice cream. I mean, there’s a sign and everything…” 

Douglas grins. “We came to see a woman about _gelato_.” He walks in with Arthur, enthusiastic, right on his heels. 

Martin sighs, and follows them in. 

Douglas is already smiling calculatingly at the woman behind the counter. She looks up, and her eyes widen, “Douglas!?” She seems genuinely glad to see him, “Oh, come inside, you and your friends!” 

“Ah, Mia, I’m afraid that we can’t stay, but…” Douglas appears to be pensive, “your gelato is the best that I’ve ever had, and since we’re _old friends_ , perhaps we can take some along…”

“Oh, yes,” she nods, “any flavour…” 

“Really? Any flavour you say?” Douglas gestures to the cooler, “Give it here, Martin.” 

“What?” So that’s why he was so insistent that they’d bring it along. Martin looks at it. “No, we can’t.”

“Oh, but we _can_. Give it to me.”

“Douglas, it’s an organ cooler. It’s used to transport hearts, lungs, I don’t know, _fleshy human bits_ , you can’t fill it up with ice-cream!” 

“Whoa, there’s been a human heart? In there?” Arthur sounds impressed. 

“ _Yes_!” And of course Douglas _will_ do it, he always does things like this, but you’re not supposed to, you really, really aren’t… there are regulations! Health and safety! 

“Not now there isn’t, so I repeat: we _can_.” Douglas takes the cooler, opens it up, and there are rows of small yellow bags inside. “There - platelets, see? The ice cream will help keep them nice and cool, so really, we’re helping.” 

Douglas wheedles the woman out of a rather astonishing amount of both ice cream and wafer cones, arranges the platelets in a pattern around it, and within ten minutes they’re back out on the street. Arthur happily licking a cone with four different flavours of chocolate gelato and little multi-coloured candies spread over it, and Martin, once again, not really sure what happened. Or how. Just that it always does, things like this. They always get dragged into situations that don’t make any sense, sometimes good and sometimes awful and Martin’s pretty sure that it’s just the combination of Douglas and Arthur and Carolyn. He himself has nothing to do with it, except maybe his terrible bad luck, but it does keep on happening. 

And now they’re smuggling ice cream along with platelets into the Czech Republic. 

The way back has Martin and Arthur, once he’s finished his ice cream, carrying the cooler between them since it’s remarkably heavy with fifteen litres of Venetian gelato inside of it. It’s summer and it’s hot; the sun beats down on their shoulders. They don’t have time to look at the architecture, that seems impressive, or enjoy the view, which is rows of tourists with selfie sticks and the occasional glimpse of a gondola. Or anything at all, since they’re constantly manoeuvring through throngs of tour groups, trying to hurry, with Douglas leading the way, saying, “Well, they don’t call it the bridge of sighs for nothing...” 

On the ferry back Martin has to take the cooler onto his lap, and he’s sandwiched in-between Douglas and the side of the boat. Arthur is standing up and leaning over the side, waving at the tourists. 

Once he’s had a minute to breathe, Martin says, “Was that really worth it? All so you can trade some ice cream?”

“Gelato.” Douglas says. Then he adds, looking around, leaning back exaggeratingly, “Plus, this is rather pleasant, isn’t it?” 

“It really is, skip!” Arthur waves and sends a giant smile the way of some elderly Italian ladies, and gets a hesitant wave back. 

“What was it this time? Mia? Moonlit strolls over the bridges?” It’s like Douglas has a woman in every city. Of course Douglas always says that he does, but it’s actually true, Martin thinks grimly. While he can’t even… well. 

Martin’s thigh is pressed flush to Douglas’, so he can feel his movement before he says. “No, she was my Italian teacher, actually.”

“You speak Italian?” Martin’s not surprised, somehow. 

“For one summer I did...” Douglas’ voice is insinuating all sorts of things. 

The boat’s engine revs with a loud rumble, and Martin looks away as they turn. The wind starts hitting his face as the boat picks up speed. The sea is a turquoise blue, the large palaces on the shore are getting smaller, and it _is_ kind of nice, Martin thinks. Douglas feels solid against him. 

Arthur has opened his arms, is leaning into the wind, and shouts, “I am the king of the world!” 

There are some Japanese tourists next to him, laughing, nodding thoughtfully, and then copying him. 

Douglas says, idly. “You know, I’ve never seen it.” 

Martin watches them for a moment more, Arthur is now offering to take a picture of the tourists, when he realises, “You haven’t seen _Titanic_? Really?! Why not?” 

“Masterpiece of modern cinema, was it?” 

Martin saw it on VHS tape on his parents’ old TV. Caitlin wanted to watch it. “Well it was... kind of good?”

“Hmm, I’m not much for romance.”

Martin snorts. “Yeah, right.” Of course Douglas is. There’s been at least a dozen like Mia, all women Douglas ‘knows’ somehow, and the worst is that they all seem so happy to see him, too, as if he’s some amazing, something, well, good. As if they all still love him. 

“No, I’m serious. It’s all rather bland, isn’t it? Nothing like the real thing.” 

Oh. “Yes, of course, it’s... yes.” Martin looks away. He doesn’t know the real thing, that is what Doulas is saying, isn’t it? 

It’s kind of true. Martin has never been in love, or been loved back. 

He keeps his eye on the water, and the distant line of land. They’ll be there soon. The cooler feels heavy on his lap. No one will ever love him. Why would they? 

At least the memories of his last job, and school before that, are slowly fading now. Sometimes Martin still has nightmares, or gets that prickle of fear, but then he remembers that that’s not true anymore, that he’s with MJN, and it’s better, somehow. 

Of course, he needs to do jobs with Dad’s van at night, and early mornings, and he’s working so much just to get by, but he is getting by. He can pay the rent, and eat, if he’s very careful, and he is. Martin plans every purchase in advance, he never does anything for fun, but he is getting to fly, as _the captain_. 

It’s all he ever wanted. 

Martin’s gotten used to command, too. It doesn’t feel as terrifying as it did in the beginning. He knows that if he does something wrong, no matter what, then Douglas will make fun of it first and fix it second. And that’s as annoying as it’s, well, good. To know. They’re kind of friends now, Martin thinks. 

Of course Martin’s terrible at nearly all the games they play, Douglas invents them just so that he will win, and he definitely thinks of answers first and then only proposes the game so that he seems even better. But even that’s… okay. 

Martin glances at him. 

Quite often, Martin feels as if he can breathe, when he’s next to Douglas. 

When the boat docks Arthur comes back looking flushed, wind-blown, and grinning ear to ear. “I’ve always wanted to do that!” 

“Well, another day, another dream fulfilled.” Douglas sounds annoyed, for some reason. 

Martin carries the cooler. 

Once they’re off the boat it’s back to where they left the car, shining in the bright sun now, and to the airport. 

By the time that they’re back in GERTI Martin’s arms are trembling from carrying the weight, and he’s got some new bruises on his chins from where the cooler bumped into him while walking. Of course, GERTI’s been out in the sun as well, and there’s a good air conditioning system on board but it’s going to take a while to cool down. 

So Martin sinks down on a hot seat, not thinking about the way that his shirt sticks to his back. Or how they have to fly to Prague, and then home, and then he has to go do a job with the van hauling boxes, probably until late tonight, and tomorrow they’re flying again. 

Douglas has put the cooler in the galley and he’s there with Arthur, doing something or other, Martin’s not listening. He closes his eyes. They’re burning. 

Maybe he can sleep for a couple of minutes before they have to leave. The air conditioning is nice on his face. 

But, “Martin?”

“Hm?” Martin opens his eyes to see Douglas walk up, holding a cone with ice cream heaped on it, lightly melting already. And it looks so delicious, that’s just _not fair_ , Martin feels almost angry seeing it, so now Douglas is eating some himself? “I thought that it was all for your _man in Prague_.”

“Ah, yes, it is, but there is nothing stopping us from sampling the goods. Here.” Douglas holds it out to him. 

“Oh.” Martin looks at it, it’s huge. Did Douglas really make this for him? 

“Come on, it’s melting.”

It is. There are drops rolling down over the cone already, so Martin takes it, feeling something guilty snag in his stomach, _this isn’t yours_. 

Still, Martin quickly licks the side of the wafer and then the cool, brightly sweet gelato. 

It is amazing ice cream, soft and creamy and cold, bursts of different flavours, he can taste cherry, suddenly sharp. Pistachio, a hint of nuttiness. Vanilla with tiny pieces of dark chocolate that crunch under his teeth. Martin needs to lick fast to get the melting under control, it’s a bit messy, he hasn’t eaten ice cream like this since he was little, Martin thinks, just in a great big pile. 

When he looks up, Douglas is still there. “Are you not getting one?” 

Douglas shrugs, “No, never been that fond of ice cream, actually.” 

Martin tries to sound like Douglas, “I thought it was _gelato_?” 

Douglas’ eyes crinkle up at the sides. “Quite right.”

Martin likes to see those little lines there. Sometimes he tries to make Douglas laugh on purpose, just to hear his voice go warm and happy, and to see his face like this, his eyes lit up.

Actually, Martin looks forward to going to work all the time, now. And if part of that is because Douglas is here, too... then that’s good, Martin thinks. That’s what it’s supposed to be. What colleagues are to each other. 

Right?

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Madrid

 

 

Jetlag. 

A pilot’s nemesis. 

They arrived in Madrid around two in the morning, found the shabby hotel-du-jour, and went to sleep. Which Douglas did, gratefully, his shoulders and back stretching out in a vague ache as he finally, finally laid down on the mattress, fully intending not to move again for a good eight hours. 

And then he woke up three hours later, completely and utterly awake. 

They came in from Lima, and before that they were in Beijing, so they’ve gone all around the globe and his body seems to have given up on keeping track. 

Douglas tries to stay in bed, but the mattress is deeply uncomfortable. The room is claustrophobically small. The sheets smell of mould. 

So he gets up and tries to take a hot shower instead. He steps in, figures out which switch to turn, sprays the water onto his toes and waits for it to get that first flush of warmth, but no, nothing. It’s ice cold. He curses, _damn_ Carolyn and her ideas about what counts as suitable accommodation for pilots who are working intensely long days. He washes quickly in the sink, dresses, and goes downstairs to the lobby. 

Where Martin is sitting on a shabby sofa, wrapped in his jacket, morosely staring at a cup of coffee. 

“Morning.” 

Martin looks as if he slept about as well as Douglas did. He has a cold, had one since they left back in Fitton - that idyllic moment thirty-something time zones ago when they were all bright-eyed and ready to go. Martin’s nose is red, and he is clutching a tissue in his hand. “Douglas, hi.” His voice sounds a bit off, more like a croak than usual. He swallows, then seems to consider the hour, “Why are you awake?” 

It is only six, and they are completely alone in the dated lobby. “Jetlag, that old ogre.” Douglas eyes Martin’s coffee. It looks awful. Then looks at the machine. “Is it drinkable? At all?” 

“No, I wouldn’t go that far.” Martin sighs. “It’s a whole euro, too.” 

Douglas glances outside. What the hell. They’re both awake. “You want to go get breakfast? I know a place.” Several, in fact, but most won’t be open yet. 

They have literally hours still, and that seems to cross Martin’s mind, too, because other than his usual hesitation to go anywhere where he might have to spend money - and yes, Douglas knows that now, why Martin can’t afford to buy anything - he just nods, “Okay.”

Douglas goes back upstairs for his coat, and then they walk outside, onto an abandoned sidewalk. 

It’s completely dark still, even though Douglas’ internal clock is informing him that surely it must be around noon. He’s hungry, actually, his stomach is rumbling. 

It’s chillingly cold. 

Douglas steers them through long streets and boulevards, mostly by memory, and a good bit of luck. He hasn’t been in this area in oh, a decade? Still, it comes back easily enough. 

It’s quiet. The occasional car drives by. Someone delivering newspapers with a van. A bakery opening their doors. It’s kind of foggy, as well; that kind of early morning mist that goes away when the sun breaks through a bit. 

Their footsteps echo on the street. 

Martin’s been at MJN for three years now. Douglas offered him first crack at the cheese tray on the anniversary last week, Martin actually seemed touched. 

Douglas’ divorce got finalised a couple of weeks ago, as well. 

So now he’s a middle aged first officer, divorced three times. Not to mention overweight, and a former alcoholic - there’s not really a way up from there, is there? 

Truth is, he has nothing, now. Nothing left but this job at MJN, and the people here. 

Douglas glances at Martin as they round a corner and walk into a blast of icy wind, cutting straight through his coat. 

Martin’s miserable, Douglas can tell. Martin’s jacket is much too thin for winter, hence the cold, probably. Douglas has thought about hinting to Arthur that he should get Martin a scarf and gloves for Christmas. Or maybe even to Carolyn, they can get him a new coat between the three of them. Douglas is willing to pay for it, as long as Martin doesn’t know that he did it. 

They’re nearly there, so Douglas speeds up. They walk to a café on the corner of a grand lane; it looks smaller than it does in his memory. But it is still here. 

It’s been years, and Douglas is not sure that he’ll be recognised at all. 

It looks closed, as well, but there’s a shape inside turning chairs off of tables, and Douglas tries the door. It’s unlocked, and yes, it _is_ Julio, a good bit older and nearly bald now, who looks up as they enter. And then blinks, and smiles in recognition, “ _Capitain_ Douglas?” 

The uniform might have helped the recognising quite a bit, Douglas thinks, aware that he’s gained a good many pounds and some grey hair himself. Still, he nods, and steps forward to clasp Julio’s hand, “Julio, _mi amigo_!” 

Martin steps inside behind him without comment and closes the door, probably grateful of the warmth of the place. 

Julio leads them to sit at a table, and Douglas can only half-remember how they met, exactly, at one of the parties of his drinking days. He does remember the last time he saw him, though. Before his second wedding. But Julio seems happy enough to see him all the same. After a brief chat, how are you, well, he goes to the kitchen to fetch them food. 

Which Martin is going to appreciate, Douglas thinks, so he translates, somewhat pleased that he still has enough contacts to get this treatment, “He’s getting us something on the house.” 

“Oh,” Martin’s chapped lips pull into a brief smile. He looks exhausted. He has tucked his hands under his armpits in an effort to warm them up, but he is looking around, at the dark, cosy interior. Douglas follows his gaze; it’s a folksy eating café, filled with chairs and little tables, and a large bar. 

Julio returns with cups of steaming, dark hot chocolate, and a plate of churros. Douglas accepts the cups with a “ _Gracias_ ,” and hands one to Martin, who winds his fingers around it immediately. 

Douglas does do the same, albeit less desperately. He lets the heat burn his hands back to life.

Then pulls off a piece of a churro. It’s crispy, the texture a lot like a doughnut, and it’s still very hot, greasy under his fingers. 

The chocolate milk, when he has a sip of it, turns out to be heavily tasting of cacao. Douglas drinks it and feels the heat spread out over his throat, chest, and slowly to his chilled limbs. 

Douglas is waiting for Martin to ask where he knows Julio from. 

He could lie, certainly. Easily. But Douglas is starting to think that perhaps he wouldn’t. If Martin were to ask, he’d tell him about a night of heavy drinking on Ibiza, and then a visit back in Madrid, in, oh, the eighties. A long week of hardly leaving the bed, and laughing.

But Martin is looking flushed now; probably as much a reaction to being in the warmth after the cold outside as it is to being sick. And he is focused on the food. Martin eats exactly half of the churros, and not one more. They’re making his lips look shiny with oil, and Douglas finds his eyes lingering on them for just a moment, before realising what an enormous fool that must make him seem. 

Julio meets his gaze from across the café. He glances at Martin with a question in his eyes, and Douglas subtly shakes his head. Julio nods, briefly sad for him, Douglas sees. But he definitely won’t mention it, what he’s thinking. No one ever does. 

Once they’ve finished, Julio clasps his hand, smiles, and says an “ _Adios, mi amigo_ ,” that is just a tad too emotional. 

Martin hasn’t noticed a thing. 

They walk back into the grey dawn. The streets are still shrouded in mild fog, but the traffic has picked up considerably. When they walk past the long fence of the public park, Douglas steers them into it. The can cut through and get back to the hotel faster that way. 

It’s nice, the gravel crunching under his feet. 

There are some people walking their dogs, a lone jogger. 

They walk past a glass greenhouse, beautifully constructed, and Douglas can remember it on some warm night. Pressing Julio - who had a quite a scandalous moustache and a penchant for leather jackets at the time - against the glass, and kissing him. 

It was all so easy, then. 

They walk through a rose garden, bushes empty and low in winter, and Douglas can just _hear_ Martin shiver. So he sighs, makes sure to treat it as if it is a major inconvenience, and takes off his coat - fast, it is bloody cold - and hands it to Martin. “Here, wear this.” 

Martin looks at it, and says hoarsely, “Are you warm right now? Really?!”

No, of course not, it’s freezing. Douglas rolls his eyes, “Yes, I have terrific body heat. Now put it on.”

Martin’s face sets, and he is about to claim that he isn’t cold at all, Douglas knows that look, so he opens the coat and drapes it over Martin’s shoulders. Martin stammers, “I really don’t need, I mean, thank you, but Douglas, I don’t...”

Douglas doesn’t care. 

“It’s just a cold!” Martin looks ridiculous with his coat over him like that, it is much too large, but he does keep it on. 

As they walk further, Douglas can see Martin wrap it around himself. 

When they make it back to the hotel Martin takes it off immediately, afraid that someone might see, or the symbolism of it has finally caught up with him, Douglas doesn’t know. “Thank you.” 

“Hm.” Douglas accepts it back. 

He eyes the sofa in the lobby. He’s sure he won’t sleep, but a bit of a doze, maybe. “Well, I’m staying here, that room is ghastly. I’m fairly sure that mattress alone counts as a health hazard, never mind the local _flora_ in the corner of the shower.” 

Martin surprises him by sitting down as well. 

It’s not a large sofa, but there’s room enough, so Douglas sinks down next to him, his back whingeing painfully. He’s getting too old for this. “I’m having a hot shower when we get home, and then a nap, and if the mood strikes, a pasta dinner.” 

The lobby really is depressing. Cold, too. Within Douglas’ line of sight there’s a fake potted plant, and a sun bleached poster advertising bullfights. 

It smells stale, like cigarette smoke. 

Martin says, faintly, “I’m driving a fridge to Luton later.” 

“Martin, no, you’re asleep on your feet as it is.” It comes out sounding too concerned, Douglas thinks. But it’s true, there’s a limit to what Martin can do. “You should cancel.” 

Martin shrugs. 

He won’t, and they both know it.

He needs the money, Douglas assumes. 

Douglas is thinking of a way to convince Martin to let the job go. Or to bet against him on something or other - he can miss a hundred pounds or so easily, but if he just gives it to Martin he’ll never accept it, so it needs to feel genuine - when there’s the subtle sound of Martin’s head leaning back against the cushions. He’s closed his eyes. 

Douglas waits a couple of minutes until his raspy breathing’s evened out, and then carefully spreads his coat over Martin. 

And if he wasn’t much too old... Which he is. 

If he didn’t have too much of a past, if he had anything at all to offer… Well. Douglas looks at Martin. 

But who is he kidding?

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Fitton

 

 

Martin is in front of Douglas’ door, five minutes late because the van wouldn’t start, holding a plate of tinfoil-covered mince pies, and trying not to be nervous. 

It’s Christmas. 

It’s been a month since Madrid, and Martin still thinks about that often. That long, cold walk through the park. Douglas giving him his coat. 

Martin knows it’s silly, Douglas and him are friends, _friends_ , and nothing more. But still, he has thought it so often now - while they’re sitting in GERTI, flying, playing word games, or eating, or waiting, or joking - ‘I think I love you.’ 

Which, no, Martin can’t say that to Douglas. He’ll just laugh. 

Or be offended, even. 

It’s Martin’s own fault that he doesn’t ever date, he does know that. It’s just that he’s so very bad at it. He’s not interesting, or funny, and he doesn’t have money and he lives in a student house and can’t afford to take anyone out and… Well, he hasn’t tried in a long time, either. 

Because once you find someone that is so amazing, then it’s sort of useless to keep on looking, Martin thinks. 

There’s no one like Douglas. 

Which is why, when they were flying home from Istanbul yesterday and talking about Christmas plans, and Douglas said, “Nothing much for me, I’m afraid, I don’t have my daughter this year. I get her for New Year’s, though.” 

Martin proposed something... stupid. And now he’s standing in front of Douglas’ door. Holding mince pies. 

Martin made them himself. Or he tried to, anyway. He phoned Mum, first, and asked her for instructions. He bought all of the ingredients, made the small pies, and they seemed fine in the oven, but then when he opened it to check, they sunk into small, hard cubes. Also, he burned his arm tying to get them out. And then tried again, but he didn’t have enough pastry left. He made them anyway, but there was a puddle of juice on the bottom of the oven, and nothing that looked like mince pies. Then he thought for a long, insane second about calling Arthur and asking him to come over and help. Which would have been a disaster, of course, so he called Mum again, went to the store again, and then he stopped one of the students and begged and bargained and when he made it they came out a perfect, golden brown. 

The multiple attempts at baking left Martin half an hour to shower, wash the flour out of his hair, bandage his arm, and shave. But of course he was hurrying and then nicked his neck and then he was bleeding all over the shirt he was wearing - his best shirt, from Caitlin’s wedding five years ago - so now he is dressed in his uniform trousers and shirt, because he really only has those clothes besides old ones with stains and tears for jobs with the van. 

And now he’s here. Holding the mince pies. 

Douglas opens the door wearing an apron, and says, “Ah, Martin, come in.” 

As if they do this all the time. 

And they could, Martin thinks. It’s not strange; they’re co-workers and friends, so there’s nothing at all strange about them spending a holiday together. Or about Douglas telling him, “Put those on the counter.” As if he belongs here, in his kitchen. 

Martin has only been here once, two years ago, but he never got beyond the front door then, so now he looks around curiously. There’s pictures, everywhere. A lot of art. A silk kimono in a frame. There’s music playing, something Christmassy. It already smells like food, and Martin’s stomach cramps at the thought. 

Douglas says, “Do you want a drink?” He checks on a pot on the stove, then takes some herbs, fresh ones, and adds them to it. “There’s a nice rosé in the fridge if you’re interested, beer as well, I picked some up when we were in Hamburg last. Of course, aperitif is more of a sparkling wine, maybe?” 

“No, I don’t need... no, that’s fine.” Martin thinks that Douglas, even a year ago, would have pretended that _he_ was drinking wine. Or at least would have made a big deal out of how special and expensive it was. 

Now, Douglas says, “Well, there’s juice in the fridge, as well?” 

Martin pours himself a glass, and sees a glimpse of the living room, he can see a Christmas tree. He wonders why Douglas put it up, if he’s just living here alone. Maybe because he always used to? 

It must be hard, divorcing someone you love. Martin remembers Douglas saying that she was the best, Helena. And he remembers the brown sauce, too, and how romantic that was. 

Martin thinks about that often, somehow. 

It takes a couple more minutes, but then Douglas declares the food done, takes the plates and trays to the dining room, and puts them on a table. There’s candles there, already lit. 

And Martin though that it might be strange, just the two of them together eating in Douglas’ house, but it’s not. They talk, and eat, and laugh. 

Sometimes Martin thinks that he hasn’t talked this much with someone in his whole life. 

Of course nearly all of it is games, and schemes, and jokes, but when Martin goes home at night he can still hear Douglas’ voice in his mind, telling him things. 

Over Douglas’ head there’s a photo of part of the Amazon, taken from a plane, and Martin thought it was just like art, at first, but then he wonders, “Did you take that picture?” 

“Which one?” Douglas turns around, “Oh, yes, back in... eighty-seven maybe? I had a Nikon FM2, great camera.” 

“You were a photographer?” Martin wouldn’t be surprised, Douglas has done everything. 

“No, just a hobby.” Douglas looks at the picture, “That was before I was at Air England, actually, charter airline. Went broke after two years, but oh, what a two years they were...” he smiles. 

Martin’s never been in love. 

Or well, not in any other way than just a crush. But when he thinks about real love, adult love, then this is what he thinks about. Douglas’ voice. 

And that feeling that he could be okay no matter what happens for the rest of his life, if Douglas is next to him. Douglas doesn’t even have to touch him, Martin thinks. Or love him back, really, he’d be fine if he doesn’t. 

Just be there. 

Douglas, who is looking so suave in the candle light.

Martin can’t stop looking at everything around him as well, because this is Douglas’ home, and it all feels like him, too. There’s a little chair and table that looks hand-painted. A large wooden bookcase with intricate carvings. Wall tapestries, and a bronze mirror on the other wall, the light of the candles is reflecting off of it. “Did you get all of this from layovers?” 

“Oh, you know how it is, you pick a thing up here and there. Or stow it in the cargo hold. Pay off a security guard, bribe an antiques dealer...” Douglas trails off meaningfully.

“....yes.” Martin does know. 

He thinks of his own room, and what it looks like. A bed, and a closet, and a desk with books, and an old computer that still runs Windows ’98. There’s a sticker on it that says, ‘Duxford Air Museum 2001’. 

He’s never brought something back from anywhere. 

For dessert, Douglas gets the mince pies, and brings them to the living room table. He sits down on the sofa, so Martin sits next to him. It’s nice here, half-dark but the candles, and the light of the Christmas tree.

Martin admits, “I burned them, the first time, and then the next ones were raw still, and then I bribed one of the students to help me.”

“Oh,” Douglas grins, “What did you bribe them with?”

“Cleaning his room for the next three months.” 

Douglas laughs, takes one, has a taste, and says, “Hm, not bad.” He eyes him, “And one does appreciate the sacrifice; it adds a certain extra something.” 

Martin has one as well. They’re as good as any from the store at least, he thinks. 

Not much better, though. 

And after sitting there a while, Martin realises there’s a picture of MJN on the wall, in-between a lot of others. 

It’s smaller and not in a nice frame like the others around it, so maybe it’s new. Arthur must have given this one to Douglas because Martin has never seen it - it’s of the four of them, in front of GERTI. Only Arthur put the timer wrong so he’s still running to get into the shot, Carolyn has her mouth opened because she’s saying something, and it was windy that day so Martin is holding on to his hat, and Douglas himself is half out of frame, but he is looking at the three of them, and smiling. 

Martin can feel his eyes be pulled to it. It’s strange to see himself there. Here. In Douglas’ house. It feels important, somehow. 

He leans back against the cushions.

Douglas’ eyes are glittering in the low light, and Martin wants to stay here forever. In Douglas’ living room, with candles sputtering on the table, and lights in the Christmas tree, feeling warm and full and happy. So happy. 

But at the same time he knows that he should remember this now, this _one time_ that he was here. Martin looks at Douglas, and tries to remember it for later. 

But he might have been looking at him too much, because Douglas sighs, deep and sort of conflicted. “Martin…” 

So Martin sits up, and kisses him. 

It might be the single bravest thing that he’s ever done. But at the same time, in the second between reaching out and pressing his lips to Douglas’, Martin’s not nervous at all. 

It’s not how he thought that it might go. It’s not the speech that Martin made in his head about how he knows that he’s nothing special and that Douglas can do so much better but that maybe just once… 

Instead, it’s a stutter of a kiss. And then another one, longer. 

Douglas is warm. There’s a shudder to his breath as he pulls him close, that sounds as if he really, really wants his, too, and Martin can feel it all the way down to his toes.

It’s…

Like coming home.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
